Broken Angels
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Sherlock and John are asked to investigate the disappearance of a French schoolchild who is visiting London. Non-Scarlet, Non-Slash, general, basic mystery/adventure. Now complete. Pip.
1. Chapter 1

**A new mystery/adventure from me! I was beginning to suspect I'd never write another one. If you've followed the rest of my canon (if so, thank you), this fits somewhere between _What People Do_ and _The Six Phantoms_. **

* * *

Chapter One

Sherlock was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed as John typed. He registered, without commenting, when John had finished his blog post and moved on to lighter issues. He knew that he'd go to Facebook next, and possibly, if thought Sherlock was still awake, he'd share the inanities of his friends lives.

He was not disappointed.

"Oh! Kate had her baby!"

Sherlock sighed. "That's nice."

"It's a boy!"

"Good for him."

"There are pictures..."

"I'm sure there are."

He heard John sigh and pictured, accurately, him shaking his head too. He allowed himself a small smile and continued to listen. By now John should be typing comments and possibly playing some ridiculous communal game, and the complete silence he opened his eyes and looked across. John was staring at the screen, completely absorbed.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked and John jumped as if he had forgotten Sherlock was present.

"No, no problem!" he started to type, excitedly. He finished, hit 'enter' with a flourish, and closed his laptop. After a moment, he noticed that Sherlock was still staring at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Good news. Clearly, that's evident from your face, but something you're not willing to share with me..."

"Oh for God's sake, don't do that!"

"Well, you could just tell me."

John sighed again. "An old friend is in London and has asked to meet up. That's all, no mystery, nothing sinister. Just, an old friend."

"An old _girl-_friend."

"No! Actually..."

"Yes, actually. Otherwise you wouldn't have taken quite so much care to ensure no personal pronouns crept into your explanation."

"Well, you're wrong. Yes, she happens to be female, but she's an old friend of the family. She was in Harry's year at school and my parents were close to hers."

"But you..."

"Nope, no buts at all. She's an old friend I haven't seen since she moved to France years ago, and I'm happy that I'm going to see her again. Right, I'm starving, do you want something to eat?"

"Not hungry."

"Fine." John wandered through to the kitchen and opened several cupboards. "Sherlock! What the hell happened? We had food when I went out this morning!"

"I finished a case! I was hungry!"

"You ate _everything?_"

"I was hungry. You tell me to eat more, I ate, now you're unhappy with me again." Sherlock sniffed.

John rolled his eyes and reached for his coat. "I'm going to the shops _again_. Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you. Take my wallet though, your pension won't hit the bank until Tuesday."

When John turned back to the room, Sherlock was holding the wallet aloft. John stifled a curse in an effort to take it with good grace.

As soon as he heard the front door slam, Sherlock leapt up and headed for John's computer.

oOo

John looked up at the large, imposing, wooden doors of the church. He paused a moment to enjoy the slight feeling of excitement, then pulled the door and stepped into the building.

The church was neither dark, nor quiet. There was, in fact, a bustle of activity going on at the front, with people moving lights and candelabra around and trailing wires. The noise was coming from a group of about thirty children singing in the midst of all of this activity, and it was beautiful. They were stood in two lines, those on the rear line were raised on a low bench. They were singing. John appreciated music on some level, but he'd be the first to admit it wasn't his first love, but even he found the voices of the children quite chilling. Behind them there were a small amount of musicians around which the electricians were winding cables for lights, trying hard not to disturb them.

John's senses recovered slightly and he noticed the conductor and smiled. He'd known Emma since she was four and she'd enchanted him by visiting his house and instantly hopping onto the piano stool to play London's Burning. She'd had something of a turbulent time since then, but he'd been genuinely happy for her when she'd visited to tell him about her new teaching job at a music school in Lyon. He watched her now and she'd clearly taken to it like a duck to water.

He had never had any sort of relationship with her other than that of a friend. She was young and sweet and in his opinion, horribly bullied by Harry, and he hadn't been surprised when she'd thrown her hands up in despair and quite neatly removed Harry from her life. They had never been a couple, as far as he knew Emma was straight, but they'd had the kind of best-friendship that was almost as close as a physical relationship, and she'd pulled Harry out of more black holes than he'd ever managed too.

Initially, he'd felt selfishly angry as it left the Harry situation entirely to him. But if he was forced into a corner, he might admit that there had been times he'd wished Emma had abandoned Harry and rushed to his arms for comfort. Several years on and it was clear that she was thriving in France and he was pleased that she'd stayed in contact with him, sending letters and postcards and keeping in touch on Facebook.

And now, seeing her again, doing the job that she loved, he admitted to himself that he may not have been entirely honest with Sherlock about his lack of interest.

The song came to an end and John looked down the church, intending to go and sit down and listen to the end of the rehearsal. His eyes lit upon a familiar, curly-haired head sitting a few pews from the back. He frowned and went to sit down next to Sherlock.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he whispered.

Sherlock glanced at him. "I came to get a ticket for tomorrow night, of course. I was told I could sit in on the rehearsal if I wanted."

"No, really, what are you doing here?"

"I like this choir! I hadn't know they were coming to London and when I found out I had to come down here and get tickets."

"You hacked onto my Facebook page, didn't you!"

"No, I didn't need to. You'd left yourself logged in. I'm pleased though, otherwise I'd have quite missed the concert tomorrow."

"Don't go on my Facebook!" John snapped. It was technically still a whisper but it was loud and terse and most of the children's eyes flickered over to them. The soloist at the front missed his cue entirely and stammered to get back in time. Emma stopped the choir.

"_Attention! Attention! Regardez-moi, et personne d'autre!" _She said to the children. She turned to glare at the interruption. As she noticed John, red-faced and trying to sink into the seat, her expression softened and there was a sudden flash of a grin. She turned back to her choir.

_"Encore une fois, depuis le début."  
_

They started the last piece again and John sat and watched quietly.

"That soloist she has there is exceptionally good," Sherlock said, his voice low and quiet.

John didn't answer him. They came to the end of the song, and Emma dismissed the children for a short break. She was immediately surrounded by a number of them, and she patiently and gently answered them all and waved them on. She turned, and smiling walked up the church to John.

"John! Oh, it's wonderful to see you!" She kissed him on both cheeks, then wrapped her arms around her in a massive and warm hug. "Thanks for coming!" she said, releasing him.

"It's fine! It's good to see you too! They're excellent, by the way," he nodded to where the children were chatting noisily with each other.

"Yes, I think I got very lucky with some of them!" Her eyes glanced to Sherlock and John sighed.

"Emma, this is my..." he considered the various options here. "Flatmate. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my friend, Emma Thompson."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mister Holmes." She kissed him on both cheeks too. He didn't get a hug.

_"Madame Thompson, je vous félicite pour la beauté exceptionnelle de votre chorale. Ils sont vraiment délicieux." _

"Thank you, Mister Holmes, you're very kind. I think I'd prefer English though, if it's all the same to you."

He nodded slightly and remained quiet. She turned back to John.

"John, I'm sorry, I know you must be waiting for your dinner but we're running horribly behind. I need to spend another half hour with the kids. For some of them it's their first trip abroad so they've been horribly distracted while we're trying to work."

"It's fine! I can wait."

"Really?"

"Yes, of course. As long as you don't mind me getting a sneak preview."

"Not at all. You're coming then? Tomorrow night!"

"Of course! I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

"I have our tickets safely in my pocket," Sherlock put in. John shot him a grateful look.

"OK then. Shouldn't be more than half an hour, I promise, then dinner." They were interrupted by a harsh, French voice shouting at the front of the church. Emma grimaced. "I'd better get back."

The newcomer was an older French man, bearded and slightly balding. He continued to shout at the children as Emma walked down the church. John didn't speak much French but he was able to understand the tone, and the fact that the children were either looking at their shoes or, in one or two cases, defiantly down the church. Emma intervened and the balding gentlemen turned his attention to scolding her instead.

John sat back down again, next to Sherlock.

"What's he saying to her?" he whispered.

"From what I can make out, that man is the head-teacher of their school. You got that he wasn't happy with them taking a break and chatting, didn't you?"

"Yes, but what's he saying to her?"

"He's not happy with her choice of music. He thinks it's childish."

"Well they're children."

"That's what she told him. Be quite now, I can't hear them if I'm talking to you."

He'd missed the conversation anyway. The head-teacher had stalked away and was standing staring at a large picture of the Virgin Mary. Emma gathered her choir again. She beckoned two boys forward, one, the soloist from earlier, and a slightly shorter boy next to him.

The choir started singing. It was hauntingly beautiful, but it was clear even to John that though they were extremely polished, they weren't enjoying themselves.

"What are they singing about?" he whispered to Sherlock. When Sherlock raised an eyebrow his bristled slightly. "What? I don't speak French!"

"For one thing, it's Latin, and for another, it's Ave Maria. Surely even you know that!"

John blushed but listened and when the solos started it was indeed obvious. The first boy sang clearly and beautifully again. He had an astonishing voice and was calm and confident with it. He finished his section and his friend took a deep breath and started. It was clear that this boy had talent too, but his voice was noticeably weaker than the first boy. He was obviously nervous too, his eyes kept wandering over to the head-teacher. He reached a high section and he struggled and floundered. He looked over at Emma, blushing and ashamed. She continued conducting, though quietened and steadied the rest of the music, then beckoned him to join in again.

He did so. This phrase was lower and calmer and he got through it without a problem. He looked relieved when it was over though, and he could just sing with the rest of the choir. John suddenly noticed that the taller boy had at some point taken his hand, and he was squeezing it gently.

The song came to an end. John was about to clap enthusiastically, but Sherlock caught his hands and shook his head. The cross man stalked from the room without saying anything. Emma gave her choir some encouraging words and the tension in the room lessened. She announced another song. It was an ensemble piece and the children sang in their sections, with smiles on their faces.

"What's this one about?" John whispered. "Sorry, still haven't learned Latin."

"This one's in French. It's about the Summer."

"Well, they seem to like the Summer."

"They certainly do."

They listened for a while, then John turned to Sherlock.

"Listen, Sherlock, about dinner..."

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it."

"No, that's the thing, I'd quite like to catch up with Emma properly."

"Of course. I suspected you would." He registered the slightly disappointed look on John's face. "Don't worry about me. You know I'm happy to talk with anyone about anything. I enjoy hearing updates on your friends."

"Yes. Yes of course." John sighed. "Actually, Sherlock, would you mind desperately... I mean, I had hoped that this time, it could just be me and Emma."

"Oh! I see." Sherlock looked disappointed.

"Look, we'll all be out tomorrow."

"No, it's fine." He sniffed. "I'll see you back at the flat later. Have you booked anywhere?"

"No. It's a Wednesday night though, we'll find somewhere."

"Well, I booked a table at Orsino's in East Street. You might as well use the table."

"Oh. OK. Thank you."

John looked at the floor as the choir came to the end and Emma finally dismissed them. She stopped to talk with a couple of the musicians, then said goodbye and came back to John and Sherlock.

"It was nice to meet you, Miss Thompson," Sherlock said to her. "I'm looking forward to the concert tomorrow immensely."

"Thank you! And it was nice to meet you too. Are you joining us for dinner?"

"Ah, no. Unfortunately I have an appointment this evening that I can't get out of. But best of luck for tomorrow, though from what I've heard from your children, I don't think you'll need it."

He held the church door open for John and Emma and strode off down the street.

"It's ages since I was in London," Emma said. "Where's close that's good? I'm starving."

"Er, I thought Orsino's in East Street. It's just up here."

John took her arm and the set off up the street.

* * *

**So you may have noticed that I don't speak a word of French. Well, not much more than a word or two anyway, and I'm ashamed that I had to resort to Google Translate. If anyone is able to check over a few French phrases per chapter for me, I'd be extremely grateful. I'm hoping to write around it as far as I can, but I might need to put one or two bits in there.**

**If not, that's fine, as long as you're all comfortable with my appalling French. (Or I could move the choir to somewhere English speaking, but I think I'd prefer to leave it.)  
**

**I would love feedback on this.**

**Pip xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two.

There was a brief panic at the restaurant.

"No, sir, I'm sorry, we don't have any booking under the name of Holmes."

"Are you sure? He told me he'd booked a table here. Do you mind checking again? Table for three in the name of Holmes. With an L."

"No, there are no tables booked for three at all tonight."

"Oh, OK then." John gave Emma an embarrassed smile. "Is there a table free at all?"

"No, sorry sir, we're fully booked."

John felt a moment of relief. In his eagerness to eat he'd forgotten that he was on a limited budget and Orsino's looked expensive.

"OK, well, Sherlock must have got it wrong. We'll try somewhere else."

"Excuse me," a passing waiter said, "I couldn't help overhearing. Are you Doctor Watson?"

"I am."

"Mister Holmes booked a table for two under the name Watson."

"Oh, yes, that booking's here," the first waitress said. "I do apologise for the confusion."

"That's fine. Thank you."

As they were lead to their table, the waiter caught John and whispered to him. "Mister Holmes said to enjoy yourself and to put the bill on his own account. He also ordered a bottle of wine for you which I'll bring over shortly."

"Did he call recently?"

"No, he called me on my mobile at lunchtime."

"OK. Thank you."

"Are you OK?" Emma asked him as they settled themselves down.

"Yes, yes it's fine. It's just Sherlock."

"What about him?"

"You know, weeks will go by where I think that the sole purpose of his existence is to irritate me into an early grave. Then he'll go and do something really kind, and I'm left feeling completely ashamed for ever being annoyed with him."

She smiled. "Sounds complicated. Are you and he _just_ flatmates?"

"Well, we're friends too. I think we are, anyway. And we work together sometimes."

"I know you do, I've read your blog! But is there anything... y'know."

"No, nothing y'know. He's a friend. It's an irritating friend, but I do actually like him. In a strange sort of sadistic way."

"So, you're a detective and a doctor now? John, I always knew you had the capacity for greatness!"

"Ha! Thank you, but no. I'm more a dogsbody and doctor. He's definitely the brains of the operation."

"He must be freakishly clever if he's smarter than you."

"Freakishly clever about sums him up, but I think you always overestimated my brains, Em."

"Perhaps. Do you remember that time we were playing out in the woods and Bill fell and sprained his ankle? I think he still has the splint you made for him."

"Ha ha! I was certainly sure of myself then. Not so much brains though, as confidence."

"Well, I was impressed!"

"Did I see that Bill is in Australia now?"

"Yep. Running a farm. Last week he told me he has two thousand sheep!"

"Ha! He never did anything by halves, did he!"

"No!"

"What about your parents? Are they keeping well?"

"Yes, they're off sailing around Britain."

"God, really?"

"Yes, they said that if all of their children are going to disappear off to far flung lands, there's no reason for them to sit around in an empty house in Surrey. We keep in touch though, they call or Skype every day."

"They still send me a Christmas card every year."

"I know. They ask after you regularly too. There's still a tone of regret in their voices that I didn't settle down and marry the doctor."

"Well, there's still time."

"Ha! That's true I suppose."

The waitress arrived with a bottle of wine and took their orders. When she'd gone, Emma looked shyly across at John.

"How's Harry?" she asked quietly.

"She's fine. She's doing well. Well, she's doing well in some areas and less well in others."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For, well for just dropping the friendship. I know it must have hurt her. And I know you must have dealt with the fall out for it."

"It's fine. Really, she's my sister after all. You can't run your whole life entirely to pick up the pieces of someone else's life."

"I know. I still feel guilty though. I'm glad to know she got on well enough without me." She suddenly gave a hollow laugh. "Listen to me, sounding like the be-all and end-all. Of course she got on fine."

"Were you and Harry... No, I'm sorry, that's not my business."

"No, we weren't. We were always just friends. Well, it was a friendship of sorts anyhow." She drank a mouthful of wine.

"Sorry. I think some of Sherlock's general nosiness is rubbing off on me," John told her.

"It's OK. The friendship became pretty dysfunctional really. There was one time... There was one time that I needed her. I desperately needed her to be there for me and she just seemed baffled by the whole thing. As if, after years and years of me holding her up she just wasn't strong enough when our roles were briefly reversed. It was hard and I couldn't cope with sorting out both of us, so I chose me. God, sorry, I shouldn't be talking about your sister like this."

"No, it's fine. It's not like I don't know what she's like."

Emma shook her head and drank a little more wine. John was surprised, Emma seemed really hurt, she was almost in tears even though whatever she was talking about was years ago. He realised that it must have been a fairly deep pain. He watched as she shook her head and forced a smile.

"Tell me about your adventures with Sherlock."

"You've read the blog."

"Yes, that's why I want to know more! You were kidnapped, John, and you mentioned it in one sentence in the middle of a thing on Chinese circus performers!"

"Well, my attention was drawn elsewhere."

"What happened with Sarah?"

"Oh, it just sort of, petered out. I have a better idea, you tell me about your adventures in France. Is it all baguettes and brie?"

"Ha! No, I do actually do some work amidst swanning around the French countryside."

"It shows too, your choir are brilliant!"

"They are, aren't they!" Emma glowed with pride.

"How old are they?"

"My lot are ten to around fourteen or fifteen. Basically until they're ready to go up to the senior choir. The boys tend to go up pretty much as soon as their voices break, and the girls try to stay with me as long as they can."

"Why's that?"

"Usually it's because being a good child singer is relatively easy in comparison to being a good adult singer. For the girls anyhow to competition moves up a level. There are two who I suspect ought to be moved on. Audrey and Cecile, they're both good, but Cecile is nervous and probably with reason. She's a soloist soprano where she is now and she knows she'd have to start again moving up. Audrey has a much stronger voice, and would probably be pushed more by the senior choir, and she'd probably be given solo's quite quickly too, but she doesn't want to go."

"Maybe she wants to wait for Cecile?"

"No, I suspect it's more that she wants to wait for Guilluame. He's my lead male soprano."

"Ah. Young love, hey."

"Mm, you don't know the half of it. The sad thing is, He hasn't even noticed."

"Ouch, poor Audrey."

"Yes. Guy is focused on his music and that's about it. Anything outside of that doesn't get a look in, except maybe Pascal."

"Is he your other soloist? He seemed quite fond."

"Yes they're friends. Pascal fairly idolises Guy. It's such complicated age though, there are so many of them so mixed up. Most of the young ones at the school for the first time come and tell me that they want to be classical musicians and that's the only thing in the world that's important to them. Audrey and Guy are rare in still wanting to do it having lived the life for years. Most of the rest of them are beginning to wonder about being footballers, or moving into the pop world for fame and fortune. In fact most of the girls would prefer to be in the pop charts than competing for rare classical solo parts. The boys are more diverse. Pascal... I worry for Pascal. His heart isn't in it at all. He has wonderful talent, but he just doesn't enjoy singing for an audience. I hear him around the school and he has real talent, on a par with Guy, but there's no point pushing him if he doesn't want to perform."

"Have you talked to his parents about it?"

"His father, yes, a couple of times. Pascal has the added difficulty in that his dad's the head-teacher."

"Oh, him."

"Hah. Yes, _him._ Could you imagine having such a father if you were a nervous twelve year old who really doesn't like attention?"

"He's only twelve?"

"Yes, that's the other problem, he's younger than several of the other boys who feel they should be getting more solos. He's better than the others when he's on form, but I have to admit that the main reason I push him forward is because Patrick leans on me too."

"Can't be a nice position to be in."

"No. It's not ideal for anyone. Mostly it bothers me because Pascal is stuck in the middle of it all, pushed to do something he doesn't like because he's good at it and it's his father's wish. Some of the other boys give him a hard time because they think it's blatant favouritism, and what he really wants to do is to be a vet."

"God. Having all of that at twelve."

"Yep. He adores Guilluame though. I think he's more or less content to stay at the moment because Guy is there and Guy really loves the music. Guy will be moved up before long though. I'll be sad to lose him for his voice, but it will be awful for Pascal." She sighed, then seemed to realise she was bringing the conversation down again. "But it's mostly good. Aside from all the playground politics, there are some really brilliant moments. The children are for the most part great. They're fun and funny and when they sing! Oh, John there are moments when they sing and I think if they were more perfect, I might just die!"

John laughed. "You never got over the hyperbole then."

Emma laughed too. "No. It goes down well in France I find."

The conversation moved on and they spent the rest of the meal reminiscing about their childhoods.

oOo

They walked back to the boarding-school where Emma's choir were staying. They were still linked arm in arm, and so far there hadn't been a question that John wouldn't at least walk her to the door. The conversation and laughing continued, and as the school building came into sight they both slowed slightly.

"John, would you like to come in for a coffee or something? You've walked all this way and... well. Y'know."

He grinned and she returned it.

"I would quite coffee or something yes." He was glad it was too dark for her to see him blush. "Don't you need to sort the kids out though? I don't want you to get into any trouble."

"Well, curfew's ten for the older ones, and I subtly kept you out just past that. We should be fine if we're quiet. And, I can't think of any way to drink coffee noisily."

He giggled and followed her in as she unlocked the door. As soon as they were inside, it was clear that something had gone wrong. There was a lot of noise coming from a room along the corridor and it was fairly clear that some of the children had missed their curfew. Emma's phone started ringing and she answered shortly and in French, just to explain she was back. She gave a somewhat ambiguous signal to John so he followed her down the corridor, reasoning that he couldn't make things worse.

They went into a common room where a number of the school adults were stood talking at two boys who were sat, side by side, on a sofa. John recognised one to be the soloist Guilluame, and the other was a boy of about the same age. They'd clearly been fighting.

Emma rushed up to them.

"_Oh Guy! Votre visage!_ "

"_Désolé, Madame Thompson._"

She turned to the adults. "_Qu'est-il arrivé?_"

John listened to a torrent of French, strangely impressed that Emma was able to keep up with all of it. He started getting alarmed when he was able to recognise the words 'hospital' and 'ambulance'. He pulled Emma aside gently.

"Em, this really doesn't need an ambulance. Or even a hospital. It's just cuts and bruises, really, they'll be fine."

"But they'll look awful tomorrow night!"

"Well, all the ambulances in the world wouldn't prevent that."

"OK. Sorry, this is all a bit..."

"It's fine. I'll check them over just in case. Perhaps one at a time though. Is there somewhere slightly, er, calmer that we can take him?"

She sighed and nodded. "Kitchen. _Viens. Guy_!"

The boy got up and followed her and she waved down the various protests from the other staff.

Guy relaxed slightly in the quiet of the kitchen and he hopped onto the worktop so that John could check the various grazes on his face. Emma leaned against the wall, biting her thumbnail.

"We're fine, if you want to leave him with me," John told her.

Emma looked embarrassed. "I can't."

"Oh. Of course. Sorry." He looked at Guy. "How's your English?"

"It's good. It's... OK."

"Well, there's no lasting damage here. Not entirely sensible though, was it? You're not going to look too pretty for tomorrow night though."

"I don't want to look pretty. It's OK for girls."

"Oh really? So do you see many soloists standing on stage with black eyes?"

"I don't care."

"What did you fight about?"

"John, leave it," Emma told him.

"I don't care," Guilluame said again. "He started it. Again he started with Pascal!"

"_Guy, vous devez apprendre à le laisser!__"_ Emma told him.

"_Je fais! Il ne nous laissez pas seuls!__"_

"_Je sais que c'est difficile__ ..._"

"_Non, vous ne savez pas quoi que ce soit!__"_ He leapt from the surface and stormed out of the door. Emma sighed and looked at John.

"I love my job, but some parts of it are easier than others."

He opened his arms and she accepted the hug. "It'll be fine," he told her. "So the other boy was bullying Pascal and Guilluame stuck up for his friend?"

"Yes. But no. John, Pascal's the head-teacher's son. They know better than to start on him directly, so they pick on Guy who's hot-tempered and will get in a fight. It all gets out of hand so quickly!"

"Don't be too hard on Guy though. He's just sticking up for his friend."

She pulled away from him. "I wouldn't be hard on him, John, it's not his fault. It's just, I think there's more to it..."

What more there was, John didn't hear. There was a brief knock on the door, then a frantic looking woman spoke a torrent of French to Emma. Emma looked shocked and she started out the door. John pulled her back.

"What is it?"

"Pascal's gone missing. He's not in his bed, no-one's seen him."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

John lingered by the door and away from the noise of twenty-nine excited children and a number of anxious adults. He was relieved when Sherlock came into view.

"Thanks for coming."

"You said you needed help and I came. What is it? I'm assuming you don't need anything relating to your date because I haven't got anything on me and the chemist is substantially closer than I was."

"It wasn't a date and don't be ridiculous! Though, thank you, for dinner. That was kind."

Sherlock acknowledged this with a short nod. "Well? Why am I here?"

"One of the children is missing."

"An important one?"

"To his parents, yes."

"To the choir?"

"The second soloist."

"The one who fluffed his lines?"

"Yes. His name's Pascal Chevalier. He's the head-teacher's son."

"This is a police matter."

"Yes, and they've been called, but you're better. Please, Sherlock? Emma's frantic."

"If you've called me because you think it'll give you a better chance of getting laid…"

"No! Sherlock, I called you because there's a missing French twelve-year-old somewhere on the streets of London, which you'll agree isn't exactly the safest city in the world!"

"Which is why we have the police."

"Sherlock…"

"They were interrupted by a stream of children running past in their pyjamas. Most of them glanced towards the pair as they hurried past, chattering. Guy was among the group of older children at the back. He slowed when he saw John and Sherlock.

"Are you police?" he asked Sherlock.

"He's a detective," John answered.

"Police?" Pascal asked again with a frown.

« Je aider la police a parfois. _» __["I help the police, Sometimes."]_

« Pouvez-vous trouver Pascal? S'il vous plaît? _»__ ["Can you find Pascal? Please?"]_

Sherlock hesitated. Guy noticed and his eyes filled. "S'il vous plaît? Plaît, monsieur, vous avez besoin de le trouver. S'il vous plaît! " _["Please? Please, sir, you need to find him. Please!"]_

"Il est votre ami?" _["He is your friend?"]_

"Oui. Oui, monsieur, je l'aime. J'ai besoin de lui revenir. " _[ "Yes. Yes sir, I love him. I need him back."]_

Sherlock gave him a long look before giving a slight nod. A teacher appeared and started towards them.

"Who are you? You cannot be here! Stay away from our children!"

"I'm helping the police with their enquiries," Sherlock told him.

Emma appeared and gave a short but intense explanation to the other teacher in French. The man turned back to them.

"You can help us? It is terrible! So terrible! Guy, go to bed now." Guy hurried off. "I am Monsiour Dabbin, I am the assistant principle here. If there is anything you need, please ask me."

"I'll need to see the boy's father," Sherlock told him.

"Yes, he is on the way from his hotel."

"He's not staying here, with the children?"

"No, no." Monsieur Dabbin looked slightly embarrassed.

"When we travel, Monsieur Chevalier tends to stay at an actual hotel," Emma told him. "The students and the rest of the teachers board somewhere. It started a few years ago and we find it, well, it produces a more restful atmosphere for everyone."

"And he doesn't ask for his son to stay with him?"

"No. He's quite clear that there shouldn't be preferential treatment for Pascal. Well, not in this sort of thing anyway."

Sherlock looked at her shrewdly but didn't pursue it.

"Are the police already here?"

"Yes. Well, one of them anyway, a Constable Proctor."

"Kenneth Proctor. Well, that simplifies things. We'll ignore that for now, I need to see Pascal's room."

"I'll show you," Emma said. Monsieur Dabbin wished them luck and took his leave.

John and Sherlock followed Emma up a flight of stairs, decked with threadbare carpet. They passed several religious icons hung on the wall and it occurred to John that this boarding school was also a convent.

"Are there nuns here in residence?" John asked.

"Er, no. No I think the main convent has moved to smaller premises and this part just runs as a regular boarding school now. Well, a Catholic one I'd have thought. Here are where the dorms are. Pascal was in a room at the end." She turned to look at them before opening the door. "The rest of the boys will still be awake I should think."

Sherlock frowned. "He wasn't in the room alone when he vanished?"

"No. It was after their curfew. The younger children have to go to bed at nine." She quietly knocked on the door and opened it. None of them were surprised to see three boys, wide awake and looking at them expectantly.

«Garçons, c'est Monsieur Sherlock Holmes. Il va aider la police à trouver Pascal. _"__ ["Boys, this is Mister Sherlock Holmes. He's going to help the police to find Pascal."]_

Sherlock ignored the boys initially, and did a quick check around the room.

"La fenêtre était ouverte comme ça quand vous êtes venu ici?" _["Was the window open like this when you came in here?"]_

"Oui, monsieur_."__ ["Yes sir."]_

"Non, monsieur, la fenêtre était grande ouverte. J'ai fermé à mi-chemin. _"__ ["No sir, the window was wide open. I closed it half way."]_

"Pascal n'a pas été avec vous, alors?" _["Pascal wasn't with you then?"]_

"Non, il n'est pas venu avec nous_."__ ["No, he didn't come with us."]_ The speaking boy looked warily at Emma.

"C'est OK, Alain, je sais que vous êtes sorti pour vous renseigner sur la lutte_" ["It's OK, Alain, I know you went out to find out about the fight,"]_ she said.

"Et vous avez quitté Pascal dans son propre dans la chambre_?"__ ["And you left Pascal in on his own in the room?"]_ Sherlock asked.

"Oui, je suis désolé, monsieur_."__ ["Yes, I'm sorry sir."]_

"Ce n'était pas votre faute", _["It wasn't your fault," Emma said quickly.]_

"Bon. Merci, Alain." ["Good. Thank you Alain,"] Sherlock added.

He opened the window again and leaned out. He looked around before pulling his head back in and turning to Emma.

"Miss Thompson, who assigned rooms to the children?"

"I don't… it would have been Madame Brun, she's the sort of, er, school manager. She arranges accommodation and organises stuff."

"I'll need to talk to her. This room has a fire escape. The other boys will have removed fingerprints by now, but I'm certain that Pascal left from the window and of his own free will. That's his bed, his bag isn't there. He left freely and prepared to be away."

They were interrupted by two more people barging into the room.

"What's going on here? Why are these boys back in bed, this is a crime scene!"

"Not necessarily," Sherlock answered.

"Oh, Mister Holmes! Glad to see you here." A uniformed officer smiled warmly at him.

"Evening, Kenneth. Who else is assigned from the yard?"

"So far, I don't know. I'm here for preliminaries but it's likely to be Edwards."

"Do you think you can swing it to Lestrade? Or for a second choice, Dimmock or even Donovan?

"You know it's not up to me, son. I'll put a word in though. You'll keep me posted on stuff, yes?"

"Course I will, Kenneth. I'll even let you interview the father when he arrives."

"Right enough. And I've left the other room as was. The room of this Benôit character."

"Who?"

"Benôit Depaul is our pianist," Emma told him.

"That's right," Constable Proctor agreed. "That chap's gone missing too."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock asked Emma.

"I didn't know!" she snapped.

"Well, I'm done here. You'll need to get forensics to take fingerprints in this room but you won't find much. Right, where is Depaul's room?"

"Third floor," Emma mumbled. She led them from the room and up two more flights of stairs.

"Do none of the teachers sleep on the same floors as the children?" John asked.

"Yes. The housemaster sleeps on the first floor with the boys, and Madam Brun sleeps on the second with the girls, she's the housemistress as well as manager. The rest of us are on the third."

"Single rooms or twins?" Sherlock asked.

"Some of each. I'm in a single, I can't remember what Benôit's is."

"I'm willing to bet single."

He led the way down the corridor, past closed doors, most of them closed, each with a handwritten sign giving their occupants name.

"Why did you label the doors?" he asked.

"So the children can find who they want without knocking on every door."

"They're allowed into your personal rooms?"

"It depends. But they're not banned anyway. They have a housemaster and housemistress, but occasionally they might prefer to talk to someone else, so we've put signs up to make it easier."

"If they wanted to talk to you about a music arrangement, for example."

"Well yes, or anything else really."

"So, Depaul's room is at the end. I thought as much." He knocked and went in. It was empty as expected and the window was wide open. It didn't escape anyone's notice that they were two floors above the exact location of Pascal's door. The bed here was unmade, and there were clothes scattered over the floor. Sherlock picked up a mobile phone from the side of the bed.

"Tell me about Benôit."

"Um, there's not much to tell. He was a good pianist, he was a quiet man. I didn't even miss him earlier when we were checking everyone. He goes to bed early, he doesn't come out for a drink with us. I'm sorry, I don't know what else to tell you."

"Did he get on with the children?"

"Yes. Well, they didn't dislike him that I know about."

"You know which teachers the children do dislike, don't you."

"I hear things but it's just hearsay and children are changeable anyway."

"You don't need to be diplomatic with me, Miss Thompson. I need information."

"They don't like Patrick, the head-teacher. Some of the girls don't like Madame Brun."

"That's why you suggested putting the doorplates up, isn't it? So that they could come to you instead of them."

She didn't answer immediately, but eventually she nodded.

"Did Benôit come with good references?"

"I didn't see them."

"I'll ask the head, later."

"When you do, remember his son's missing," John told him.

"Yes. Well he'd be better off helping us then, wouldn't he? Right, I'm going out of here. I'll meet you outside the boy's room." He leapt out of the window and down the fire escape, examining it closely by torchlight.

John turned to Emma with a shrug.

"Sorry about him. He can be a bit… well, brusque when he's on a case."

"It's fine. I don't care. He could curse me from here to kingdom come if it means he can find Pascal."

He squeezed her arm gently, then they went downstairs and waited outside Pascal's room. They could still hear soft French voices talking to each other inside the room. After a moment, they became aware that there was yet another row happening downstairs. They looked at each other and then dashed downstairs.

Back in the common room, they found Sherlock being yelled at by Patrick Chevalier while Kenneth Proctor tried to get a word of explanation in.

"He's worked with us before!" Kenneth said.

"I don't want extra people here! I do not need a media scene!"

"Je lui ai demandé de venir, Patrick_,"__ ["I asked him to come, Patrick],"_ Emma said.

"Vous avez pris des libertés! Il ne devrait pas être ici! " _["You took liberties! He should not be here!"]_

Sherlock spoke calmly. "Monsieur Chevalier, clairement une erreur a été commise. Comme vous l'avez dit, j'ai travaillé sur plusieurs cas similaires qui ont été résolus de manière satisfaisante, mais je n'ai pas l'intention de mal à causer ni dommage, ni de travailler contre votre volonté propre. Je vais prendre mon congé de vous maintenant. Bonne nuit. _" __ ["Mister Chevalier, clearly a mistake has been made. As you have been told, I have worked on several similar cases that have been resolved satisfactorily, but I have no intention of causing trouble or harm, nor of working against your own wishes. I'll take my leave of you now. Good night."] _

He turned and walked smartly away, with John trailing him.

"What was that about?" John asked, when they were back out on the street.

"He doesn't want us on the case, John. It's his son, he has called the police, he doesn't have to consult me."

"So you're just walking away! And leaving a little boy alone on the streets, and Emma being screamed at by her boss?"

"Ah, so it's Emma you're worried about is it?"

"No! Not like that! You should have seen her, Sherlock, she loves these kids! She'll be devastated if he's not found, and that constable didn't exactly inspire confidence!"

"Oh come now, John! How long have you known me? Do you really think I'll walk away from such a delicious mystery?"

"A mystery? Earlier it was an open and shut, missing kid case."

"Oh yes, Pascal. I'd almost forgotten him. I was actually talking about the missing pianist, but Pascal's father certainly puts a new spin on the other one. Anyhow, if you're desperately worried about her, you can text your girlfriend and tell her I'm still on the case."

"She's not my…, Oh never mind." He did pull his phone out and start texting.

"Not that it matters of course, but I quite approve of Emma. Much better than your usual vacuous choices."

"You're right, your opinion on it doesn't matter."

"Understood."

"So you like her then?"

"Yes. She seems pleasant enough, she didn't wither under questioning, she has excellent taste in music, the students clearly respond to her and I approve of her attitude towards them. She seems quite calm. What, why are you smirking?"

"Calm isn't a word I'd associated with her before. You're right that she's not panicky though, more, well, she views most things as exciting. Not drama though, more, she looks for stuff to be interesting and worth celebrating." He realised he was rambling somewhat. "Where are we going, Sherlock?"

He'd been following Sherlock quite happily and it had just occurred to him that the route that they were taking was predominantly made up of back-streets and yards behind shops and pubs where bins were kept.

"I'm tracking Pascal of course! Well, not so much Pascal, he's small and young and tracking in London isn't easy at the best of times, but I'm tracking Depaul. He certainly came this way. I wonder if he had prior knowledge of London."

"You don't think they were together then? Depaul snatched the child and ran?"

"No, not at the moment. I don't think Pascal was snatched at all. I think he went willingly. Think about it, he was fully dressed, he didn't go to bed and he took a packed bag with him. Not the actions of someone who left suddenly and against his will.

"But it was a room full of kids."

"Oh, I'd forgotten you didn't get that bit. The others left the room to see what was happened between the young thugs downstairs. Pascal was there before they left, and gone when they got back. The window was open and by a convenient fire escape, while the hallway was full of people, he certainly left that way. Anyhow, contrast his actions with Benoit, he got out of bed, he dressed hurriedly and not fully. My current hypothesis is that Pascal wanted to leave, and when most of the students and staff were distracted by the fight downstairs, he took his opportunity. Quiet Benôit wasn't interested in the fight, he saw him leaving and followed, hoping to bring him back."

"Isn't that speculating ahead of the facts or whatever it is you tell me off for doing."

Sherlock smiled. "Can you think of a more logical explanation?"

"No, but I never can when you've said something."

They stopped suddenly. "No, this is hopeless. I knew where he was and now I don't."

"Could he have got into a cab?"

"From here?"

John looked around him. It was a blind yard behind a largish office block. There were large municipal rubbish bins, but not much else and no access for any vehicle that was larger than the wheeled bins.

"They must pull the bins through there to get them taken," Sherlock said, pointing to a gap between the buildings and wrinkling his nose.

They wandered down it together, and then down another street before getting back onto the main road. Sherlock shook his head and walked back through the gap, more slowly this time. John walked several steps behind him, adding his torch-beam to Sherlock's and staying quiet and out of the way.

"I don't think he walked down here," Sherlock said finally. He went back into the yard and started examining it more closely. He wandered up to each of the bins, shone his torch above them, looking for a way in which a relatively active man might have found an exit. He was on the point of giving up when his eyes widened.

"Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid!" he muttered.

He shoved back the lid on the first bin and vaulted up to peer in. He did the same with the second bin, this time pulling himself up completely and squatting on the think side, like a cat.

"John, I need you to call the police for me."

"What is it?"

"I've found Benôit Depaul."

John cursed and started dialling.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four.

"Right, they're on their way."

"Good. Why are you still down there?"

"What?"

"The body's in the bin, you're short so can't see it from where you are, and yet you're still on the ground." Sherlock glanced down at John.

"I'm not getting in the bin, Sherlock. Cause of death can wait until they fish him out."

"I'm not suggesting you get _into_ the bin. If you were to do that you'd disturb the body. Just hop up here like I am and have a look."

"I'd still rather not."

"John! Stop being so prissy!"

John gaped but Sherlock had already turned away. He rolled his eyes and pulled himself up to perch on the edge of the bin. Sherlock smiled at him, nodded at the body and held his torch so John could look. John added his own beam to it and observed.

"Well, he was shot, Sherlock. I'm reasonably certain that you could have worked that out by yourself."

"Yes he's been shot. If you could be a little more precise and give me any other pertinent details, I'd be extremely grateful."

John looked again. He started methodically looking down the body, from the head to the feet. Sherlock shone his torch beam to follow John's. When he'd finished John looked again at the corpse's hands and frowned. He leaned forward to get a closer look, shining his torch from one hand to another.

He looked forward again, shuffled his feet, lost his footing and fell into the bin with a squeal. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What are you doing? I told you _not_ to disturb the body!"

"Sherlock! I'm in the bin! Would you care to get me out?"

"Well why you're there, you could…"

"Sherlock! I'm on a corpse, and I'm sinking into rubbish! It's kitchen waste!"

"It could be worse then. And you could look at his hands while you're there!"

"Sherlock!"

"Fine." He reached down and helped John find his footing and hauled him back onto the edge. John sniffed, coughed and jumped back down to the floor where he started trying to brush debris from his clothes. There was quite a lot of quiet cursing. Sherlock followed him.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Let's just say this evening hasn't turned out exactly as I'd hoped, shall we?"

"It was just a tiny bit of rubbish, stop being so whiny. You've got fish on your back." He started to pick it off.

"Don't do that!" John snapped, shaking him off.

"Fine, you keep that fish right there."

"Sherlock, could you please help me get the fish off. And anything else you might find. God, I think I got some of it in my mouth." He spat a few times.

"Why didn't you shut your mouth when you knew you were falling in?"

"I was concentrating on trying not to land on the corpse too much."

"Oh. Fair enough then." He continued brushing John down and picking various things off him.

"Hello, boys. Sorry to interrupt."

Sherlock spun round with a smile.

"Ah, Sally. The corpse is in the bin there. It's been slightly disturbed, but as it was put there post-mortem it shouldn't be too much of a problem."

"Great, thanks. You two should just get back to what you were doing." She smirked.

"We weren't doing anything!" John snapped.

"Yeah, whatever. The rest of the team will be here in a sec. You don't need to stay, I'll take your statements later. I'm assuming they consist of 'we found the body, we messed up the crime scene'."

"You've been told the rest of the case, I assume?"

"'Kid missing, kid's teacher dead. Bit odd, Sherlock's already there.' That was what we were told and then we drew straws to see who'd come down."

"Drew straws?" John frowned. "Wow, well, yeah, loads of people must want to work with him."

"No," she explained slowly. "Clamouring to get down here first wasn't the problem."

"Oh." He looked at Sherlock who had assumed what John had come to recognise as his 'carefully impassive face'.

"You should have sent that fool, Dimmock," Sherlock said with a sniff. "He's fine about working with me."

"Well yeah, he likes the results, but being constantly referred to as 'that fool' is apparently wearing a little thin. Guys, we're over here!" she called to a group of forensics police who had entered the yard. John and Sherlock were ignored thereafter and they walked off down the alleyway, back to the main road. John continued to shake things off him and cough slightly as they walked.

"Right, what next?" Sherlock asked him.

"Well I was thinking of going back to the flat for a shower, after which I'll crawl humiliated into my bed."

"Don't you want to continue on the case? I'm quite enjoying it!"

"Why are you even asking me? You don't _ask._ You _tell._"

"I'm working on being a little more inclusive. But as you failed miserably at suggesting an acceptable next move, I will take over. You need to go back to the school and get background on both the boy and the teacher. Talk to anyone you want, but Emma seems straight forward and honest. And there's the plus point that you have at least one mutual language…"

"Hang on a second, I can't go back to the school! It's after midnight and I stink of rotten fish."

"It's not that bad!"

"Sherlock!"

"OK, you reek like the Devil's armpit. Fine. Go home, shower, and then go and talk to Emma. Or any other teacher you're interested in. I need to know more about the boy and the teacher."

"So why don't you go?"

"Oh, really? You'd prefer that_ I_ went and talked to Emma?"

"Ok, fine! I'm going! I'm going now!"

"Good. Wait!" he called to him. "What was it about the hands that caught you? He was shot in the chest!"

"Oh, he was arthritic."

"Arthritic?"

"Yes. He was a pianist, he played for hours every day…"

"Emma said he was good."

"Yes. So he must have been in pain all the time. Poor sod."

"Right. Thank you."

"Where are you going?"

"For a walk and a think. Call me when you've got information. It doesn't matter what time."

He turned and stalked away.

oOo

It was nearly one and John was sat in his kitchen staring at his phone. He knew that Sherlock would be horribly scathing if he didn't simply ring Emma. On the other hand, he knew that it was inappropriate to do so at this hour. He decided to text and give the white lie to Sherlock that she hadn't answered and was probably already asleep.

In fact she called back within seconds.

"John? Is there any news?"

"Oh, no, I'm sorry Emma. Though actually…" he bit his lip and thought for a second. "Emma, I know this is unusual, but can I come over? Sherlock needs more information and there's stuff… well, I think it would be better in person."

"Yeah. Can you come soon? I'll wait just outside."

"Don't get too cold though."

She laughed. "You never stop caring, do you?"

"I'll see you soon." He hung up and went back out to get a cab.

Emma was indeed outside waiting for him, wearing a jumper over her pyjamas.

"I'm really sorry," John said as he walked up to her. "I know it's awful to wake you up, but well, time is precious for this and Sherlock really wants information."

"Where is he?"

"Actually he's not here, he's chasing something I think. Look, Emma," he took her hands. "Em, I'm really sorry, but Benôit Depaul is dead."

"Oh God."

She cried and John held onto her hands.

"Em, let's go inside. I think you need a drink."

She nodded and he followed her to the kitchen. She put the kettle on before slumping down at the kitchen table.

"Oh God," she said again.

"Look, Em, I'm sorry, I should also tell you that there hasn't been a formal identification. Sherlock recognised him from the church, and I'm certainly not saying he's wrong but there's been no formal identification. I need you not to tell anyone."

She nodded and wiped her face. "I know it's him. I'm sure of it. Y'know, I really hoped that he'd taken Pascal and run. I don't know why he'd do that and I don't even think it's likely but at least that feels better than Pascal being out and on his own somewhere." She wiped her face again. "And that sounds as though I'm wholly lacking in sympathy for Ben, doesn't it. I'm not, it's just… it's just."

"Em it's normal. I think it's fairly normal to think about the twelve year old first. I think it's more than normal for you. Here." He passed her a cup of tea and sat down with one himself. "And I'm really sorry to wake you so late, Em. Let's try to be brief, you need some sleep."

"It's hardly your fault. You're one of the good guys, swooping in to sort it all out again. Besides, I wasn't asleep. Some of the kids have been slightly disturbed. I had Guy in my room for two hours, and as soon as he'd left, Audrey came in."

"Audrey was particularly upset?"

"No, and I don't mean this to sound horrible, but I'm fairly sure Audrey was making a show of being upset because she wants Guy to think she really likes Pascal."

"Oh."

"It does sound horrible, doesn't it? But it isn't. She's fourteen, she's a girl with a crush, she's basically going to be a touch self-centred for a while, and then she'll grow out of it."

"What about Guy?"

"He's terrified. He's desperate for Pascal to come back, he's torn between thinking Pascal will never be OK on his own, and terrified about that, then he's terrified about whether he's going to be able to cope without Pascal."

"They were close then? I mean, tonight, they hadn't rowed or upset each other or anything."

"Not that I know of. And to be honest, I can't even imagine it. Guy hardly talks to anyone. Even with Pascal he's quiet and mostly just listens. John perhaps you should know…" She looked up suddenly and calmed down. "I'm sorry. We're supposed to be talking about Pascal, aren't we?"

"Is there anything you can tell me?"

"I'm trying to think of anything beyond what you already know. He's not happy here. There's tension between him and his Dad and he's terrified of him. He wants to move home with his Mother and go to a day school, one that's not music centred, but his Dad wants him to stay."

"His Mum's alive? Sorry, I just assumed… so the Mum's alive and divorced from the Dad but he's got custody?"

"Yes. Sort of. Look, Patrick is fairly wealthy. He runs the school… I don't even know why. I think he took it on because he really loves music and he wanted to open a place for brilliant musicians to study, but he doesn't need to do it. He's rich, and from the rumours about the place, Pascal's mother is being paid a substantial amount of money to allow Pascal to stay at the school."

"Doesn't she know he's unhappy here?"

"I don't know. I think Pascal's put under a certain amount of pressure to make her think he's doing well. Certainly I'm put under pressure to have him take the solos at concerts she's attending. It's all very 'look how well I'm raising my child.'"

"Are they in contact?"

"Oh yes, he sees her. He goes for weekends during the holidays. During the term time he's officially too busy to do so. She calls him and sends letters. She writes to him once every couple of weeks, and sends little gifts in the letters. He cries when he gets them. You can imagine how that goes down with the other boys. And with his father."

"When did he get the last letter?"

"She sent him a 'good luck' bookmark just before we came on tour."

"So he was upset on the journey?"

"Well, on the boat he was mostly seasick. But yes, in general, he's mostly upset. The thing is, even though he's so miserable, I just can't see him running away. Not without help anyhow; that's why I thought that Benoit might be involved. Pascal's as timid as a mouse, he's incapable of even buying his own bus-ticket. He's completely sheltered. With the other boys his age, I could imagine them doing more, because they're here at the school and they go into the town and they learn stuff about the world. Pascal doesn't. He stays close to the school."

"Close to his Dad."

She looked at him, incredulous. "No, John! Close to Guilliame!"

"Oh. Doesn't he go out with the other boys."

"_No_, John! I'm not kidding when I say that Pascal is the _only_ person Guy talks to! The stupid thing is, if he'd gone missing I'd absolutely believe he'd run away. He's quiet but he's very street wise. He's smart and he's learned to think before he speaks or acts. If they'd gone together, I'd know for sure that it would be Guy's idea and that Pascal would just follow him blindly with Guy looking after him. But Pascal…"

"But Guy talks to you. Sorry, you said he doesn't talk to anyone, but he talks to you."

"Well yes. He does. John, he talks to me in confidence. I'd die rather than lose that trust. I'd hate for him to have nobody, especially now."

"No. I understand. But look, Emma, I don't know what's important with regards to finding Pascal, so I'd rather know it all. If there's anything you can tell me, all I can do is promise is that I'll be discrete."

She looked at him for a long time. "Of course you will be. I'm sorry. Look, I can't see that it's relevant, but you might as well know that the thing that is unspoken in the school, well, by the teachers anyway, and the reason Guy doesn't talk to anyone… John, Guy's gay. He's young and confused, no I don't mean confused. He's fairly sure himself that he's gay. But he's confused because something that makes sense to him is causing a him lot of problems."

"So he and Pascal…?"

"No, John, Pascal's twelve and I don't think even he has the slightest idea yet and Guy isn't… well, he loves him, but he's a friend and Guy values that more than anything else. Besides which, Guy's main interest at the moment is Benoit. Oh, God."

"Guy and Benoit?"

"No, John, Benoit's a grown up and Guy isn't. Guy has a crush, he admires him, but I'm pretty well certain that Guy would never even talk about it to anyone else. Probably not even Pascal! The idea of him telling Benoit is just crazy."

John watched her and waited for a while for her to talk again.

"Look, John, I need you to understand, they're all just children. They're children at a boarding school, and almost everything about who they fancy is based on which boy or girl doesn't run screaming from them, and who's vaguely pretty and lets them hold their hand. But they talk about actresses and pop stars and they put up posters and talk in a way that they think makes them sound grown up. But Guy's known for a while that on those lists of which people he likes, girls don't feature much for him. He finds men beautiful, he knows he responds to them in the way that the other boys respond to girls. He was confused and worried for a long while, then one day he came to me and told me he'd worked it all out. He was gay. And he seemed _relieved._

"And on some levels, he is happier. In himself he's confident and sure and he never denies it, even to people who don't really know him and are frankly rude to ask. It's not even really a secret, but he wouldn't offer the information either. The thing is, the other boys, they've figured it out too, even though Guy's more discrete than the average fourteen year old. They give him a really hard time. And if it was just kids being kids, then it would be one thing, but several of the teachers have been somewhat less than accepting too. Patrick hates him, and he's very worried for Pascal, but I think he'd hate him even if he wasn't his son's best friend. He loves him for his voice though, and he knows the choir can't do without him. I've heard some of the others commenting too."

"Do you say anything to them when they do?"

She looked at him. "Of course I do, John." She gave a small, humourless laugh. "My friends to enemies ratio here is about fifty fifty. But you see, John, that's why Guy is devastated that Pascal is gone. He doesn't fancy him, not yet anyhow, it's not about that. It's that everyone else he knows hates him. Pascal honestly doesn't care about Guy's sexuality one way or another he doesn't care about any of it even when everyone else does. He's utterly unashamed and he's not remotely judgemental. He just likes him. He's a friend. He's a really, really good… friend."

"God that sounds familiar."

"Hm?"

"Well you know, it's like in Shakespeare isn't it? Romeo and Juliet and all that. Or do I mean Othello?"

"Yeah, you never did quite get your head around Shakespeare did you?"

"No. I probably shouldn't have brought him in really."

"No." She sniggered then her face fell again and she shook her head. "Oh, God. This is all so awful."

"I'm sorry you're so miserable, Em. I really am. Not just at the moment either. I'm sorry you're in such an awful position."

She looked at him with a frown. "What do you mean? I love my job."

"But you said you have enemies."

"Doesn't everyone? Besides, when have you known me stand down from a fight? And the kids, John! They're brilliant! All of them! I love Audrey and her incredible fourteen-ness and Pascal's so sweet, and Guy, he doesn't talk but he's so sure of who he is that I just know he's going to be OK in the end. And the others, yes they act like children but that's what they _are_ and they're doing it so normally, and I love it when they realise and they change something or take a different tack and it's amazing. I love them, John, and…"

She broke off and cried hard. John was concerned and moved towards her to hold her while she sobbed. Slowly she calmed and pulled back from him.

"Sorry," she said. "Sorry, I'm being silly. I'm just tired and it's been an awful day."

"Emma?"

She sat back and looked at him with a firm smile. "I love them, John. I love them. And I can't have children of my own, so I love them."

* * *

**Apologies for the long delay between chapters. I'll try to get back on track and have the next one up at the weekend.**

**Thanks for reading, and for all the reviews thus far.**

**Pip xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

John closed the school door after himself and walked slowly along the road. He hasn't gone far when he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through to find Sherlock's number.

"I can save you the call," Sherlock said from behind him.

John jumped and spun around. "God, Sherlock! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"I didn't. You walked right past me." He smiled. "You seem to have been very thorough."

"What?"

"You've been hours! What did you learn about Pascal Chevalier?"

He started walking away from the school and John fell into step beside him.

"Well, some you know already, he wasn't happy at school, but Emma thinks it's really unlikely that he ran away. She says he's barely able to get around in the town he lives in, let alone find his way through London."

"So he had help, or at the very least a strong incentive to try it."

"Yeah. Well, part of the reason he's so clueless is that he's very sheltered. He stays close to the school all the time, usually with Guilliame, who just doesn't like to go out, but I'm wondering if the Dad's doing more to keep him close than even Emma knows. What she does know is that he's paying the Mum off so that he can keep Pascal at the school, and she gets hardly any time to see him, just a couple of weekends during the holiday."

"Emma told you this?"

"Yeah. Apparently they all know about it."

"Hm. How do they know it though? Is it just a rumour that grew?"

"Oh, well I don't know. Sorry."

"No, in some ways it's useful to know what everybody thinks whether it's true or not. And this might well be true, I won't discount it yet."

"She sends him letters and calls him. Em says he cries when he gets the letters."

"Mm."

"She contacted him just before he came abroad."

"Ah, so now you're wondering if the Mother's arranged to meet him and he's run straight into her arms."

"No! Well, yeah."

"It's certainly one possibility."

"OK."

"What about Benoit?"

"Benoit?"

"Yes, what about him?"

"Er, well, we didn't really talk about him."

Sherlock stopped and turned on him angrily. "What do you mean? I gave you instructions to go and find out what you could about Pascal _and_ Benoit! What the hell have you been talking about?"

John flushed. "Something came up, OK!"

"What? What came up that could _possibly_ be as important as the missing twelve-year-old?"

"I didn't…"

"You didn't do _anything,_ John! Damn it! I thought I could trust you! I thought that you were vaguely competent by now! I forgot for a moment that as soon as a pretty girl comes along you're completely distracted and utterly useless!"

He turned around and stamped.

"Sherlock, I really didn't…"

"No. No matter. I'll just have to remember to do it by myself next time." He walked on again.

John waited for a moment and then followed.

"What have you been doing?"

"I haven't been wasting precious time!"

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry. You're right! I shouldn't have allowed myself to get distracted at the moment, but… No. It doesn't matter, it's not relevant. What have you been doing?"

"I've been trying to track Pascal. Like I said before it's not easy in London at the best of times, and he's a child. It's easier for me to think like an aloof adult piano player than a sheltered and nervous twelve-year-old. An upsetting amount of it is guess work. I've had to come back to the school three times to re-check the early route."

He stopped as they reached a junction where three main roads crossed. On the corner where they were stood, there was a pub, and on the corner opposite there was a nightclub. The road to their right had a collection of smaller shops and to their right was the start of the main shopping area. Beyond the night-club opposite there was a steady build-up of office blocks. John could see the friendly flashing lights of a Holiday Inn about a hundred meters down the road. Several cars and cabs sped past them, despite the early hour of the morning.

"I've already checked the hotel," Sherlock told him. "I'll tell Sally to check again for the mother, but the boy certainly isn't there, and I doubt she is."

"Could he have got on the tube?" John asked, pointing at the entrance.

"Thought of that. CCTV says no. Besides which, now I know he was nervous and sheltered, I suspect the oyster machines and the noise and the crowds would have baffled him. I know for sure he was on foot when he got here, I've tried all three main roads and none of them seems likely. I do know that this was where Benoit lost track of him too."

"Yes the backstreets we chased him through must have come out… wait a second, we crossed this road down there! We must have… we ran behind this pub! The yard he was found in must be behind the hotel!"

"Yes, you're right. I think he'd got as far as there and he started doubting his trail when he was attacked."

"Bit odd though, that someone attached him by coincidence just because he happened to be there."

"I don't think it was a coincidence, John. Now, the club there was open when Pascal got as far as here, as was this pub. There were lots of people around at that time! How did he just vanish?"

"Well, if he was here while the pub and club still had people pouring out of them, and the road would have been busy, he would have been terrified. And he would have been very vulnerable. Is it possible that he left the school of his own free will, but he was diverted by someone when he reached here?"

"It's possible, but again unlikely. You'd be surprised how few people actually have the inclination to snatch a random child they just happen to pass. In fact, they're hugely outnumbered by the amount of people who would want to _help_ a frightened child. Though unfortunately there weren't that many of them here between eleven o'clock and midnight either."

"So what happened then?"

They stared at the crossroads for a few seconds. Their view was suddenly blocked by a night bus, its windows full with tired people, mostly students, mostly drunk, a few of whom had fallen asleep against the windows.

As it moved away, Sherlock suddenly grabbed John by the wrist.

"Oh!" he cried.

"The bus!"

"What? No! If he couldn't manage the tube where at least he didn't have to speak to anyone, he wouldn't have managed the vomit-comet where he'd have had to negotiate with a driver! No, look! Look there!" He pulled John along and across the road. "Oh, John, don't you just love Boris?"

"What?"

"The bikes John, the bikes!"

By the tube entrance there was a rank of Transport for London bikes.

"But he couldn't have! You've got to get some kind of key to borrow one!"

"And the keys are now available for single time users, via that machine there."

"But if he couldn't manage the tube or the bus because he didn't have an Oyster card…"

"The tube and the bus are crowded and needed immediate action. Whereas the bikes are still not as highly used. He could sit and watch people for a while, then simply copy. Look at it from his point of view, John. A bike is the most familiar form of transport that he's got here! And once he's on it, he can just ride away, he doesn't need to be bothered about where to get off."

"But he has to know the way."

"That depends on whether he has somewhere to get to or not, or whether his destination was simply 'away'."

"But if someone was helping him…"

"Perhaps there was no-one else. Perhaps Pascal took the opportunity and just ran. Benoit, the one teacher who was unmoved by the fight going on downstairs, noticed him leaving and followed, probably looking to bring him back."

He frowned and sagged suddenly. "No, you're right. All of this speculative and unsound and I simply don't have enough data. If it was just opportunity, why was Benoit attacked? And wouldn't the more convenient opportunity for Pascal to run be in his native land and the most obvious destination his mother's house? Though it's possible two bikes were taken… Did Pascal take the bike or not? And if so, where is it now? Well, we can answer that question anyway." He pulled out his mobile phone and John listened as Sherlock outlined to the police his current thinking and asked them to check the hotel again, and to trace the bikes that had been taken from that terminus at eleven the evening before.

He hung up and looked at John. "I'm not enjoying this one, John. It's too messy and there isn't enough usable data. I don't like this much guess work."

"No. It's not great that there's a missing twelve year old involved either."

"No, I suppose not. Let's go home. I need to have a think about all of this. You can tell me what else you and Emma talked about." He hailed a passing cab and they settled themselves inside.

"So…" Sherlock prompted.

"So, OK." John thought back over their conversation. "Well, Pascal's a nice boy who's miserable and the father would rather keep him than let him live with his mother. He's got talent, but no inclination to use it. He's nervous."

"Yes, I know this."

"OK, well, Pascal's best friend is Guilliame, who's two years older. Guilliame thinks he's gay…"

"He think's Pascal's gay?"

"No, he thinks he's gay himself. Is that relevant?"

"Not to most people."

"Well, the other boys don't like it. And apparently some of the teachers, including Pascal's dad, the headteacher."

"Humph."

"Oh, and according to Emma, Guy had quite a crush on Benoit."

"Hm."

"Er, Sherlock? You will be discreet about all of this won't you?" Sherlock turned to him with a frown. "No, but I've seen you use people's personal things against them. Sorry, but I have."

"I'll be discreet. So, Guilliame, the star of the choir has lost his best friend and his secret crush both on the same night. That's interesting. What else."

"Well, I'm afraid at that point we got onto personal issue of Emma's."

"What? No, what John, are you going to tell me or not?"

John sighed. "Emma had some medical stuff going on a few years back. It's resolved now but she needed a full hysterectomy. She can't have children."

"And this bothers her?"

"_Yes_, Sherlock."

"It must bother her a lot if she discussed it at that length with you on tonight of all nights."

John turned angrily towards him, but Sherlock was looking deep in thought and quite un-judgemental. His chin was sunk down to his chest and his eyes were gleaming. John lapsed into silence as they travelled back to Baker's Street.

Sherlock walked into the lounge and instantly curled up on his armchair, his head sunk and he stared at the carpet.

"Do you want tea?" John asked him.

"What? Oh, no. You might as well try to get some sleep."

"No, I'm fine. I'm happy to stay awake if you want company."

Sherlock looked at him and smiled. "I apologise for calling you incompetent, John. Though it's true that I'd prefer your conversation had been shorter and cut through to the most pertinent points, in its own way it was quite… illuminating. You might as well sleep."

John sat down on the sofa and watched Sherlock settle into his reverie once more. He wondered what it was that had been illuminated. He watched and waited.

Four hours later he woke up to an empty room. He had a quick look around but could find no sign of Sherlock. It was with a heavy heart that he went to shower, feeling that if he'd have just tried a little harder Sherlock wouldn't have cut him out of the fun. On the other hand, Emma had needed his attention and it would have been unfair to cut her off when she had been so upset. Especially as a great deal of the upset had been because Harry had offered her no support at all.

He stood under the hot water for a while and willed himself to relax and calm down. He heard the bathroom door open and the toilet lid be put down.

"We need to go back out, John," Sherlock said to him.

"Sherlock, I'm in the shower."

"Yes, I know. I want to go back to that crossing. There must, _must_ be something there that I've missed. There's something there..."

"I don't suppose we could continue this conversation when I'm out the shower could we?"

"No."

John signed again. "Well, what about the bike?"

"They've traced all but two that were taken from that terminus."

"OK. So well that would fit with Pascal and a helper. Is that what we think?"

"_I_ think that they're somehow connected to the disappearance of Pascal. But I don't know how, and I find I'm beginning to doubt it."

"I think I'd prefer he wasn't on a huge bike in the middle of London traffic."

"It was late."

"Even so. Where did you go just then?"

"To buy milk."

"_Milk?"_

"Yes, milk. I accidentally drank it all when you were asleep so I went out to get more."

John peered round the curtain to frown at Sherlock who was perched on the toilet lid with his knees drawn up to his chest.

"You went to get milk?"

"Life goes on, John. We still need milk."

John ducked back behind the curtain to rinse his hair.

"So, we're going back to the crossroads."

"If you ever finish your shower. Just how clean do you think you can get?"

"OK! OK. I'm coming. I can't get the stink of fish out of my nose." He turned the water off and reached for his towel. Sherlock did not conveniently hand it to him. When John looked, he was once again staring at the floor, oblivious to everything else. John sighed again and grabbed his towel.

"Well, are you coming then?" He said to Sherlock.

"In a minute."

"Oh, so _you're _allowed a minute of privacy in the bathroom are you?"

"If you wouldn't mind. And I'd love a cup of tea."

John rolled his eyes again and went to make some breakfast.

He'd been allowed to drink half his tea and was told to bring his toast to eat in the cab, thus it was that they were back at the crossroads half an hour later. John was left to pay for the cab while Sherlock went to stare at the pub.

"The Fighting Cock. Looks like a nice place," John said as he joined him.

"Really?"

"No. It looks like a convenient, soul-less establishment that basically waters people on their way home from the office or when the tube line's down. Nobody's favourite, nobody's choice, and nobody's regular or local."

Sherlock turned to look at him. "John! I'm impressed!"

"Yeah. I know about pubs. Good for me. You'd think they'd change the name."

"Why?"

"Well, it's a bit... creepy."

"I'm sure no actual cock fighting goes on there any more. Soul-less it may be, and something else too, but probably no illegal animal fighting."

Sherlock smiled and banged loudly on the door. There was no answer.

"It might be a bit early I suppose," he said. They stood back and looked at the floors above. "It looks like someone lives up there. If it's not the landlord himself, it's the bar staff. Come on, let's go and see whether they have a back door."

They walked some distance around the block and then Sherlock lead them along an alleyway towards the back of the pub. John assumed that it was one of the alleyways that they'd run down the night before but he couldn't place it. There was a tall gate on the backyard that was inconveniently closed. Sherlock scanned the walls, and found a likely spot to vault himself up. He looked back at John.

"I seem to spend an awful lot of time trying to get you on top of things at the moment."

John pulled a face, and then quickly scrambled up beside Sherlock. Sherlock jumped down and John followed.

"Hm, I hope we can get back out again," Sherlock mused.

The looked around the yard. It wasn't remarkable. There was a concrete floor with weeds poking through various cracks. There was a wooden shed next to a brick-built outhouse, which was probably an outside toilet when it was first built. There was a lumpy tarpaulin that Sherlock pulled back to reveal four bikes, chained together with the end on attached to a drainpipe on the wall.

"More bikes," Sherlock muttered.

"Here! What the hell are you doing in my yard?"

They turned to see a middle aged woman, storming towards them from the pub's back door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Yes! I'm sorry! I haven't forgotten this story exists! What I should do is just write the sodding thing without getting distracted by other stories and blog writing. I have the attention span of a kitten.**

* * *

Chapter Six.

"You're breaking and entering by being 'ere! I'm calling the police right now!" The woman was extremely angry, her face bright pink under her yellow blonde hair.

"Jolly good. Are you the landlady of this establishment?" Sherlock asked.

"I am. I'm calling the police!"

"So you said, Mrs Linda Brown."

"How do you know my name?"

"Ah yes, it is difficult for landlords to keep their name private when they have to print it above their pub doors."

Linda wavered slightly. "It ain't above the door. Well not here, is at the front."

"We've been at the front."

"I'm gonna call the police!"

"So you keep saying."

Linda looked from Sherlock to John and back again. She shuffled her feet, her expression changed from anger to one of mild alarm.

"Look, I'll let you go if you just clear out. Get out of my yard, and I won't contact the police. Too much fuss and I'm too busy. Go away before my husband gets back. He won't be 'alf so understanding."

"Really?" Sherlock replied. "Oh there's a shame. I'd much rather stay here, finish what I was doing and have a nice chat with the people from Scotland Yard. I'm happy to complete any paperwork myself!"

Her expression changed again. John was certain now that she was afraid of something.

"What do you want?" she asked them.

"We what to know where Pascal Chevalier is," John said to her.

"I dunno who that is!" she replied.

Sherlock smiled. "Come now, Mrs Brown. That's clearly a lie."

She stared at him looking bewildered and lost. "I don't know where he is!"

Sherlock stood back and nodded slowly. "That, however, is true."

There was a brief silence in the pub yard. John could recognise that Sherlock had effectively dismissed the woman from his mind as he continued to survey the yard.

"Where is your husband now?" he asked her.

"He's indoors."

John frowned. "No, no he's not. You just said he'd be back soon. Where is he?"

"I dunno. He went out."

"Where do you think he might have gone?"

"I don't know! He was gone before I even got up!"

"What do you know, Mrs Brown?" Sherlock asked her, having seen all he needed to see in the yard. "I'm particularly interested in what you know about Pascal Chevalier?"

"Pascal, the little boy, look my sister in law called me and she told me about him. What's happening to him at that school is cruel! It's horrible for him! He shouldn't be made to stay, he should be back with his mother where he properly belongs!"

"So Madam Brun spoke to you about him, and you agreed to help get him away from the school when he came to London."

"Yes. But we didn't do anything! All I was to do was just see him safely on his way to his Mum! It wasn't like kidnap or anything! He left the school by himself, no-one made him!"

"Did he come into your pub last night?"

"No! He was meant to but he didn't. I kept a look out but we was busy and I couldn't keep checking! I thought that's where Pierre was."

"Pierre Brun?"

"Brown."

"Did Pierre know about this plan?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Did your husband approve of this plan?"

"Yeah. Sort of." She suddenly looked up, frightened and defensive. "Look, I don't know what you're playing at! I don't want you here any more! Get out! Clear off!"

She marched up to Sherlock and shoved him hard. Sherlock did nothing more than step backwards with a smile, but John got close and grabbed her raised arm to stop her hitting him.

"Look, we have to call the police now, because there's a little boy who's missing and they'll want to talk to you. It would go much better for you if you didn't choose this moment to physically assault that man."

"I'm not doing n'owt! You're trespassing on _my_ property!"

"Which is a location connected to a crime that I've been hired to investigate!" Sherlock said. "Now be quiet, I need to make the phone call you're refusing to." He turned and spoke into his phone. "Donovan? I need you to come down to the Fighting Cock on Holland Street. Yes _of course_ it's about Pascal Chevalier!"

He hung up and smiled at Linda again. "Now, Mrs Brown, would you like to have another go at explaining it all to me."

"I don't want no trouble. I never wanted no trouble! I just want to help the little boy!"

"Yes. I understand that," Sherlock said calmly. "But I'm worried for him now and I know something went wrong. I need to know what that was so that I can help him. Can you help me to find him please?"

Linda's troubled eyes looked back and forth between Sherlock and John again.

"I don't want nothing bad to happen to him."

"No, we know," John said. "But we're worried about him. So are his friends and his teachers. They want to find him again. Will you please help us?"

For a second it looked as though she might do so, but at the last moment her face clouded over.

"No. I'm not telling you nothing. I'll wait for the police if I 'ave to but I'm not talking to you."

"Fine, John, I want to use your back as a fulcrum. I need to get this door open." He waved at the door of the outhouse.

John was confused but he dutifully squatted down in front of the door while Sherlock picked up a washing pole from the ground.

"Hey! Don't you dare! You leave that alone!"

"I'm sorry, it's really quite important I get this open. You don't mind do you?"

"I do mind!" Linda yelled. "You put that down and stay exactly where I can see you!"

She sat down on the doorstep and crossed her arms.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John sighed. They wandered over to the yard gate.

"What do you think has gone on?" John asked Sherlock quietly.

"I'm not sure. I think I was right initially though, that Pascal left the school of his own free will and he had help. Benoit wasn't helping though, I had thought he was trying to retrieve him. No, it was Madame Brun helping on the inside, ensuring he got a room by the fire escape, possibly communicating other bits of information to him, and certainly advising him to come here. This Mrs Brown was to be his help on the outside."

"So did he come here or not? You said he disappeared from the street outside here last night. Could he have come into the pub?"

"He might have done, but if he did Linda Brown didn't see him. She's not lying about that. I do want the place searched though, inside and out here. The thing is, she is worried about Pascal. She didn't want him to go missing. She's a mother herself though her children are older, and she feels strongly for Pascal's mother. The question is then, what is it that she's so frightened of that she'd let that fear get in the way of helping the little boy? I'm willing to bet it's the husband. I'm happy she's outside, watching me, rather than inside, warning him. I hope she doesn't realise that keeping me within her sight isn't actually her highest priority now."

"So that stunt with the door was just to keep her here?"

"No, I want that door opened. I'll get Sally to do it though. It did help to keep her slightly confused and worried though. This furtive, whispered conversation is helping too, so well done, John! She's desperate to know what we're saying."

"Oh. Well, somewhat annoyingly I've run out of questions now."

"You could always tell me about your date." Sherlock said, in an urgent whisper. "As long as you keep looking confused and slightly angry and don't start looking all happy."

"I've told you about my date!" John said, frowning.

"Brilliant, just like that! So it was a date then?"

It took a moment for John to realise it was his turn to speak, so incongruous was Sherlock's intense expression with the lightness of the words.

"Certainly the dinner and the wine helped make it feel that way. To me anyway. Thank you again" He nodded slowly and glanced back at the outhouse, and at Linda.

"She was taking you back to the school for something though. Was it coffee?"

John spun around so that he was facing the wall, rather than Mrs Brown.

"It's no good, I can't talk about it without grinning."

"Show some decorum, John, this is a crime scene after all. Well, probably." He shook his head for a moment and frowned deeply. "I'm glad you're happy anyway."

"Not yet. I'm not sure Emma's looking for love right now."

"Yes. I see your point. I also see Sergeant Donovan hammering on the door of the pub."

"Oh, thank God for that."

He turned to see Linda Brown running to the pub door in order to get her side of the story across first. John felt a moment of worry that Sally might be inclined to think favourably of Mrs Brown, simply because Sherlock was there. As the conversation got under-way he realised quite quickly that though she disliked Sherlock in the strongest possible terms, she was also professional to the core and accepted his expert knowledge.

He also noticed that Sherlock stood back slightly, giving only the briefest outline of events and allowing Sally to interview Mrs Brown to her own satisfaction. When she had done so, and had managed to fill in the gaps that were left by Mrs Brown's answers, she turned to Sherlock.

"And you'd like to add…?"

"You need to interview Mister Brown,"

"You don't need to! He don't know anything!" Linda shouted.

"And I'm sure he'll tell me that then!" Sally snapped at her. "What else?" she asked Sherlock.

"There's an outhouse in the yard that I'd like to have a look inside."

"You don't need to! No one's been in there for years!" Mrs Brown protested.

"No, it was disturbed last night. The weeds in front have been pulled up by the door opening. The soil is undisturbed, it was recent."

"We went in there on Monday."

"On Monday years ago?"

"Don't get clever with me! I don't even know where the key is."

Sally sighed. "I'll get someone up here with bolt-cutters. I'll put a call out on Mister Brown at the same time." She stood up and stretched.

"Wait!" Mrs Brown said. "I'll get you the key. I think it's in the drawer."

She retrieved the key from a utility room just off the main bar, and she handed it over to Sherlock with a surly expression.

They trooped back out to the back yard and Sherlock unlocked the heavy padlock on the door of the shed. It was stiff and old and took a moment to free up.

When he opened the door they found, wedged into the narrow space, a bright blue Transport for London bicycle, the front wheel was badly buckled, the paint scraped off in several places, and the handlebars spattered with drops of dark, dried blood.

Sherlock crouched down, not touching the bike, but examining it closely.

Behind him, Linda Brown was muttering, "Oh no, oh no, not the boy! Don't let it be the boy's!"

John looked at her. "Did you know he was going to take a bike?"

"Pascal? No. He was supposed to come here."

"What then?"

"I was going to take 'im to France today on the ferry. I was taking 'im to his mother."

"Wait a second," John said, alarmed. "Is Pascal's mother waiting for her son to show up sometime today? She doesn't even know that he's gone missing?"

"John, in a missing child's case the parents are the first people spoken to," Sherlock said to him, not looking away from the bike. "If the parents are divorced, the non-custodial parent is the first person under suspicion. Sally would have sent someone to talk to her immediately."

There was a silence while John looked expectantly at Sally and she looked blankly back at him.

Sherlock stood up and spun around. "You are kidding, aren't you?"

"He was reported missing at eleven last night! It's just after ten now, so it's…"

"No! No, Sergeant Donovan it isn't anything! Why the hell didn't Proctor call the French police immediately? Why was her home not searched within the hour?"

"He couldn't have got there…"

"Donovan, this is ridiculous! This whole damned case has been thwarted with sheer incompetence from all sides! I have an assistant whose mind wanders during important, evidence gathering conversations, the police who can't even follow basic, simple and _sensible_ procedures! I'm being blocked from all quarters! I can't do this! I can't work with such…"

"What?" John asked.

"Amateurs!"

"Lind? What's going on, what the 'ell are you…. Shit!"

The man who was beginning to lumber into the yard suddenly turned and ran back into the pub. John was after him like a terrier and he'd caught hold of him before he made it into the bar. He brought him to the floor in one quick movement, pinned him down with his knee and locked his arms behind him. The man screamed and swore.

"That'll be the husband then," Sherlock said. "And that cut across his nose explains the blood on the bike. Good." He sniffed. "Sally, take him in for questioning, double check the blood samples at the lab."

Sally did not choose this moment to point out she didn't work for him. She handed John cuffs and called for back up. It wasn't long in coming and as more police filed into the building John and Sherlock walked away.

"I'll call and update you!" Sally called. "About the blood. And the Mum."

Sherlock nodded slightly.

"Thank you," John called back. He followed Sherlock onto the street. Sherlock was staring at the bike-rack again.

"What now?" John asked tentatively.

"We need to go back to the school. I'd like to talk to Madame Brun before she's arrested. I want to talk to Emma too."

"OK then."

"Good catch, by the way."

"You're welcome."

They turned and walked back towards the school, and John grabbed his mobile and dialled Emma's number. It went to answer-phone and he left a message telling her that they were on their way.

They walked in silence for a while before John's phone rang as Emma returned his call. John stopped as he spoke to her.

"What, really? How can they… OK, we'll come there then. Wait, is Madame Brun with you? OK, we'll come straight there." He hung up. "They're not at the school, they're rehearsing for tonight's concert. At the church."

"They're going ahead with the concert?"

"Apparently."

Sherlock frowned for a moment and was still. After a moment he smiled and hailed a taxi. When he'd settled into the seat he called Sergeant Donovan.

"Sally, Madame Brun's at the St Martin's church. You might want to bring her in for questioning." He hung up.

"Didn't you want to question her first?"

"No, I no longer care about the Brown family. There's a bigger snake to catch here. There are just a few more pieces to slot into place and then we're there."

"But we're still going to the church?"

"Yes. I find that I still want to talk to Emma."

John held his breath for a minute but he didn't question this. He stared gloomily out of the cab window.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven

The cab drew up to the roadside outside the church. Emma was waiting just outside looking tired and tense. John found that he felt uncomfortable talking to her with Sherlock there. He didn't need to as Sherlock jumped in.

"What does Madame Brun teach at the school?"

She blinked for a second. "Er, literature and maths."

"What instrument?"

"No, she not musical, she's here because she's housemistress for the choir girls. She does some of the academic lessons during term time."

"How did she get a job at the school?"

"I don't know. That recruitment wasn't anything to do with me. What's happening? What's going on with Madame Brun?"

"She helped Pascal escape."

Emma's eyes widened and she leaned back against the wall.

"Did you know her long before you started work at the school?" Sherlock asked.

"No. I met her for the first time the day she started work."

"OK. Good. Do you know if she was known before by anyone at the school?"

"Wait, yes. She went to school with Patrick. I think she even knows his ex-wife."

"Yes, I think she does too." He smiled again. "Isn't this fun! It's just a matter of having the right conversations with the right person! What does Madame Brun say about the rumours about Pascal's mother."

"She doesn't say anything about it. She told us off when we were having a gossip once, and since then, people don't discuss it in front of her."

"Oh, this is marvellous! It was Patrick then, who insisted that the concert would go on tonight."

"Yes. I was surprised and I don't like it, but Patrick's like that. He doesn't focus on what people might be feeling; he just pushes everything onward. That's what he said to the choir this morning. 'Life can't push art aside.' It's awful, the children are tired and upset and worried about Pascal. I'm not allowed to tell them about Benoit. As far as they're concerned, he grabbed Pascal and ran away with him and he's with him still."

"Do the rest of the staff know?"

"No. I didn't tell anyone. John told me not to. They'll find out when they see news stories about a dead Frenchman who's connected to the disappearance of the boy though. So it wasn't Benoit then? He wasn't anything to do with it?"

"No, didn't I say? He just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. He followed Pascal, the kidnappers got rid of him. It wasn't in the original plan but they improvised."

"Kidnappers? So he was taken then?"

"Yes. Wait, there hasn't been a press release yet, why would the staff see it on the news?"

"Patrick is away now, making an appeal. And through all of that distraction, we're supposed to just sit tight and rehearse and perform. It shouldn't be happening. It's cruel." She blinked tears away for a moment.

"You don't want your choir to perform today?"

"No. Of course not!"

"Marvellous! So he's doing the appeal now is he? It's later than he might have hoped. What are you doing for a piano player?"

"Patrick's sorted it. There's been some intricate shuffling among the violins and one of them will now play piano."

"Who will choose Pascal's replacement?"

"Me."

"Will Monsieur Chevalier have any input?"

"He doesn't need to. It'll be Alain. That's understood by everyone."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Poor Alain."

Emma and John frowned at him, waiting for him to explain.

"When I was here yesterday, there were people rigging up recording equipment."

"Yes."

"Do you record every performance?"

"No. We're recording this one to release a CD and a DVD which we'll sell on tour."

Sherlock smiled at her. "I know where Pascal Chevalier is! Come with us. We'll go and find get him shall we?"

Emma looked surprised but nodded. "I'd better go and let them know I'm going."

"Madam Brun is about to be arrested. Do try not to give her any warning."

She nodded and disappeared. John turned urgently to Sherlock.

"Look, if Emma has anything to do with this disappearance, can you please let me know now? I know it makes no difference and I know you like your dramatic reveals, but please, I don't think I could handle it!"

Sherlock frowned. "No, of course she doesn't. I had a couple of suspicions early on, but she is as innocent as a rose. At the moment anyhow. I'm sure you can do something to change that quite soon though."

"Sherlock, this really isn't the time. But thank you. For letting me know, I mean." He frowned. "Then if it isn't her…" He broke off as Emma came back.

"Now, John, you wouldn't want to spoil my big reveal would you?" Sherlock spun around and hailed a cab.

John was surprised to find that Sherlock directed the Cabbie towards Scotland Yard rather than back to the Fighting Cock as he had suspected. Sherlock didn't pause to ask for help or directions from the desk Sergeant. He just led the confidently upwards to the large meeting room which was used for press releases. They walked in at the back.

"Please, please I implore you," Monseiur Chevalier was saying, "if anyone knows where my little boy is, I urge you to come forward. I miss him, he is important not only to me but to our school."

Greg Lestrade was stood at the back.

"Sherlock, John," he whispered and nodded at them in greeting. "Get all the fish off OK then, John?"

"Yes thank you. And I'm so pleased that story's already done the rounds."

"Sh! I'm listening," Sherlock said.

"In addition to my extreme gratitude, I am offering a reward of eighty-thousand Euros to anyone who provides information that directly leads to the return of my son, Pascal."

There was a murmur among the journalists and camera-men in the room.

"Damn it, I asked him not to do that," Lestrade said.

"You don't need to worry," Sherlock said. "He has no intention of paying anyone. On the other hand, I'd quite like to know if that statement might count as a verbal contract. That would be very useful information to me."

He grinned and strode forward to the desk where Patrick Chevalier was sitting.

"I thought you weren't interested in outside help," he said to him. "I thought you wanted the police to take complete control!"

Patrick stuttered for a moment. "I took advice! They said I should do this!"

"Oh, shit," Lestrade muttered at the back of the room.

"Well, I have some good news, Monsieur Chevalier! I can give you the name of the person who arranged to have Pascal Chevalier kidnapped. I can even give you the name of the kidnapper himself!"

Patrick's mouth opened and closed a few times. "Before, you said to me he left on his own! He ran away!"

"Yes, and I was right. The kidnapping I refer to happened outside the Fighting Cock public house. That's the crime that I'm here to solve. That and the murder of Benoit DuPaul."

"I hope he knows what he's doing!" Emma said quietly.

"He does," Lestrade told her.

"He's never wrong." John said. "Well, he's sometimes wrong, but when he's in front of a roomful of press and police he's never wrong."

"The murder…" Patrick started but then he shut down.

"Yes, murder, Monsieur Chevalier! That's what it is now. And misuse of police time, though God knows, they haven't exactly exerted themselves on this one as yet!" Patrick clamped his mouth shut and Sherlock sighed spun around to address the journalists. "Can anyone tell me if that offer of eighty thousand Euros constitutes a contract of any sort?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade snapped.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to Chevalier.

"You were suspicious of Madame Brun, weren't you. You were worried that she might be in league with your wife and might be attempting to remove Pascal and send him to his mother. She was good, she worked quite hard to endear herself to you, didn't she? Certainly by the time she applied for the job at your school, she'd more or less convinced you that she was loyal to you, and not to Mrs Chevalier.

"But you weren't surprised when you found she'd been plotting to remove your son from you all along. I think you've probably suspected her for some time. Fortunately, other members of the Brun family were loyal to you, and not to her. So when Pierre Brun learned from his sister and wife that they were going to send Pascal back to his mother he ran to tell you. And you were so calm and calculating about it all. You'd already decided to let them hatch their plan and help Pascal away from the school.

"And then you arranged to have him picked up, and brought to you, didn't you?"

"Why would I do such a thing? He is my son! Why would I hurt him?"

"Pascal Chevalier, the little boy who would never quite live up to his father's expectations. But you thought you'd help him along a bit, didn't you. You thought that maybe he wouldn't need the perfect voice and the most confident stage presence as long as he's already captured the hearts and the imaginations of the public!

"So here you are now, pleading for the return of your little boy. What were you going to do? Have him released suddenly so that he can wander onto the streets and be picked up and returned by someone just in time to perform?"

"I didn't! I didn't!"

"Come on, Monsieur Chevalier!" Lestrade said, storming to the front of the room. "Where is he?"

"I will not answer. I want a lawyer."

Both Sherlock and Lestrade sighed and rolled their eyes.

"What do you think, hotel?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"No, it's too public. He'd never keep him hidden for long enough."

"The fighting Cock's closed and is being searched. If he's there, we'll find him."

"You're searching the pub?" Patrick asked.

"Yes. And Mister and Mrs Brown have been arrested. They're here. If they're supposed to be looking after your son, you need to know that he's alone right now! It would be a lot better for you if you just told us where he was!"

Patrick finally looked defeated. "Pierre has a flat in London. His wife doesn't know, he uses it for… well you don't need to know."

"The address!" Sherlock shouted.

"Sixteen Galveston Road, in Wandsworth."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "There you are, someone arrest Chevalier and go and get Pascal."

There was an eruption of noise and camera flashes from the somewhat stunned room.

"Mister Holmes, can I ask…" a woman asked while she shoved a microphone into Sherlock's face.

"No. Go away!" Sherlock snapped pushing past her.

"Are you coming?" Lestrade asked him.

"No. It's all finished now. This bit's boring."

"Can I come?" Emma asked eagerly.

"Who's are you?"

"Oh, I forgot, this is Emma, she's Pascal's teacher. She's a good one and probably worth taking along if the kid's mother isn't in the country yet! John, are you staying with her? OK, come along then."

oOo

That afternoon, John walked downstairs after a nap.

"I think I should have that money," Sherlock said to him, by way of greeting. He was lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

"Since when have you cared about money?"

"Since I've needed a new computer."

"What happened to yours?"

"I broke it a bit."

"Leave it on the cooker again?"

"No, I spilled acid on it. They're not yet designed to withstand that."

"Well use mine."

"I already do. I'd prefer one of my own that's not littered with your stupid stuff. Besides, he said he'd give it to anyone who solved the crime. I did, I should get the money."

John sat down and opened his own computer. "I keep thinking about it, you know, I keep thinking that so much stuff seemed to go on that was totally irrelevant."

"Yes, that was part of the problem. The bikes were irrelevant, all that stuff with the kids not liking Guilliame was irrelevant. Even Benoit Dupaul was irrelevant in the end. I should have cracked it sooner. I would have done it I'd have started out with the parents straight off. I must be getting arrogant in my old age."

"You think?"

"Shut up. You were supposed to comment that I'm not that old."

"Oh! Emma's mailed! Pascal's fine! Absolutely fine! And the concert is still going ahead! Apparently the children are relieved and happy and they want to sing about it. Oh that's nice!"

Sherlock sat up and looked at him. "John, can I ask a favour?"

"Sorry, I'll stop reading my email at you."

"No, that isn't it. Though yes, please stop doing that."

"What then?"

"With Emma, do you think… do you think maybe…"

John frowned. "What? Come on, out with it, man!"

"Do you think she'd let me play violin tonight? They have a space because one of the pianist dying. I just mean maybe second violin, nothing flashy or prominent."

John grinned. "There's no harm in asking I suppose."

He reached for his phone.

* * *

**Gah, gah and a hundred time gah!**

**I have to admit, I don't like this one. I'm not saying that for a chorus of 'oh but it's fine!' I just really don't think it's one of my best, and I'm actually fine about that. **

**What I have learned: **

**Don't start anything that contains even a small amount of a language you don't speak.**

**Work out the plot in advance. Don't change your mind three times as you're going along.**

**There's a big amount of space between 'a nice idea' and 'a story that can and should be told'.**

**If you think the fic needs burying and starting again, then come clean and just say so. Don't drag it out when you're just not committed to it any more. Life's too short.**

**The good news is that I think it's salvageable, and it has enough parts that I like to make me want to do that. I'll re-write it substantially and republish, probably at some point after season 2.**

**The other good news is that I'm fairly sure I know what my next adventure is going to be. I'm intending to write it fully before I start publishing though!**

**Anyhow, this is done now, and thanks very much for reading. I'd very much appreciate feedback on it.**

**Thanks**

**Pip xxx**


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